


Fortress of Ice

by Zetaori



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zetaori/pseuds/Zetaori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only one thing that helps against the heat. One simple idea. Ice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortress of Ice

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to read/comment on LJ, you can find the story [here](http://zetaori.livejournal.com/3032.html").

Brad blames it all on the heat. 

Wherever they go, whatever they do, whoever they fight, it is always so hot.

He wears a helmet and boots and pants and what feels like tons of material thrust upon other tons of material with another ton of things stuffed into it for a jacket. 

He feels like he's sizzling inside his skin.

The wind makes his lips crack and the water he drinks is warmer than his body temperature.

There is never any hope because there are always miles ahead and long hours to swelter and even when the sun sets, the ground is bubbling and boiling.

 

What he does is he thinks of something. One single thought. 

He thinks: Ice. 

He lets his tongue caress the word silently. 

His mind wraps around the concept and pulls it close. 

One simple idea. 

Ice ice ice. Iceiceice. 

It's the only thing that helps. 

 

Thinking of ice ice ice helps with the heat. 

It also helps him to concentrate when decisions are difficult and he thinks his brain will melt and creep right out of his ears. 

And it helps with the fear. 

 

When he's on the road, or whatever the respective country's equivalent might be, or when he's on guard and nobody is awake, or when he's just sitting and staring and his mind drifts from sleep deprivation and hunger, the ground starts to look like a glacier. 

He has never told anyone. 

 

\--- 

 

It's not until he gets back that the dreams start. 

He's been dream-free for so long that his first dream startles him. 

He cannot remember a single thing and stays up the rest of the night, watching the sun rise through his dirty curtains.

He tries to remember that this is the place where he should feel safe.

 

When he dreams for the second time, he remembers _white_. 

He doesn't know what to make of that. 

 

He's back in his life, but he's also waiting to be away again. 

He tries not to ask himself if that's what he wants, because it is what it is. 

 

The next time he wakes up, his eyes and throat burn. He croaks and touches his face with numb fingers to feel wetness and dried tears. 

He remembers dreaming of ice. Miles and miles of colorless, odorless, soundless ice. 

He gets up, walks around, forces down a few sips of water and falls asleep on the floor. It's strangely comforting and he's not dreaming down there. 

 

They had him talk to someone when he came back. It's standard procedure.  
He knew he'd be okay. He knows the symptoms, and he doesn't have them. 

He's never had it before, and he's pretty sure he won't get it. 

He feels just fine. 

 

He lies awake a lot, but that doesn't worry him. 

He's used to not sleeping well, and he's not getting as much of a workout as he's used to.

Also, he actually likes lying awake, thinking. He appreciates some quietness after days and weeks of no silence whatsoever, except for the deadly silence during combat, which no one in his right mind can enjoy.

 

He spreads out in his bed, smelling the clean sheets and cool air, trying to sleep. 

He thinks of snow.

He imagines one single snowflake falling down, whirling, melting and freezing back, on its way to the earth. When it hits the ground a few minutes later, he thinks of another snowflake.

It's incredibly relaxing.

He makes up a whole sky of snowflakes, joining and parting, dancing with each other and alone.

He's never seen much snow in his life, but now everything is full of it. 

Acres and acres of white cotton batting. 

A desert of snow. 

 

In the morning, he is tired and his head hurts. 

He's feeling calmer than ever before in his life. 

He gives his mirror a smile and runs a few miles before breakfast. 

Everything in the street looks like it used to, and that's reassuring. 

 

\--- 

 

The next time, he imagines mountains. Big, mighty, Alps-like mountain ranges, stony peaks darting towards the sky. He doesn't forget some rudimentary vegetation, moss, small forests. Then, he lets the snow fall again. 

He adds some ice, making the passes slippery. He watches one tree swaying under the load of snow. 

He has never seen something so beautiful. 

 

During the night, it happens quite often that he wakes up and cannot remember falling asleep. He glances at the clock to get some grip on the time, and when he looks again a few hours have passed, or no time at all. 

 

He meets some of the guys, and when they get drunk, they start telling their stories. 

They cannot sleep. They cannot remember doing certain things. Or they think they did things they didn't do. They flinch every time a door falls shut. They cannot watch anything with action on TV. Or action is all they can watch. They start to cry. They start to panic. They are afraid of dying. 

He wants to say "stay frosty" when he leaves, but he can't. 

 

This night, right on the peak of one of the biggest mountains, there's something inside the snow. On closer inspection there are stones jutting out of the snow blanket. Black marks. 

Ruins. 

The remnants of a building. 

Right there, in the middle of nowhere, in the snow. 

Long-forgotten and buried in snow drifts. 

In his dream. 

 

He wakes up, lying on his stomach, gasping for air with his head buried in the pillow, everything wet and dirty and messy, arms and legs dangling over the edges of the bed, spread-eagle. 

He has no idea what time it is, or what day for that matter. He feels like he's slept for weeks.

He gets up, crams his sheets into the washing machine and peeks behind the curtains. The sun is just beginning to rise. 

When he finishes his usual jog, instead of going into the house, he just starts over again.

The newspaper stand says today is Wednesday, and he remembers yesterday was a Tuesday, and he nearly stumbles.

 

After he's finished his usual distance twice, he crashes on his bed and closes his eyes. 

His muscles burn and twitch and it's a good thing he has nowhere to go. He cannot even lift his head.

He stares at the wall for a few hours. He's sure he should be thinking about something, but there is nothing. He just stares and waits.

It's something he's good at.

It gets dark before he can get up and fix himself something to eat. It tastes like dirt and he spits it all out. 

 

It's during this night he starts building. 

The idea comes in a dream. 

Where the ruins are, he raises a wall. A wall made of stone, black against the endless white. Stones upon stone, no mortar except snow and ice and the stones' own weight. The wind beats against it, but it holds. 

And when the wall is high enough, he starts with the next. 

 

Four walls are a room. The floor is made of ice, one gigantic floe. The snow keeps falling in. A gap in the wall for a door, and a second room adjacent, even bigger. And then another. 

Maybe he isn't building, maybe he's just reconstructing. He has no idea what used to be here or what he's working at. 

 

He wakes up and it's the first time in a long while that he feels rested. He yawns, rubs his face and stretches. 

Nothing hurts. His face is dry. The sheets are neat.

He's slept well into the afternoon, but he has no idea how long he's been asleep because he cannot remember getting into bed.

He spends the rest of the day on the street, walking aimlessly and enjoying the cold wind until the darkness starts to creep in. He jogs back home and does push-ups while he watches some comedy on TV.

He feels good. He thinks about calling home. 

 

When he closes his eyes, he remembers. 

Snowy mountains, trees powdered white on majestic slopes, light blue sky. 

And in the middle of it all, on the highest peak, overlooking a world of ice, a fortress. 

A fortress made of stone and snow and ice. 

A gigantic, multistory, ample stronghold. 

With tunnels, huge and tiny crenelated turrets, colossal pillars. 

His fortress. 

 

He's never been there in his life. 

So where did it come from? 

 

\--- 

 

He has a routine, and he never stops to think about whether or not this is what he wants his life to be. 

He runs a few miles, eats something for breakfast, rides his motorcycle as far as he can, and then back again.

Then he crashes on the couch and flips through TV channels until it gets dark.

Then he goes to sleep.

It's just that he never knows when he'll fall asleep and when he'll wake up again.

He keeps his hair cropped short, his face clean-shaven, his body fit.

He's waiting for the call.

 

Every night it's the same dream. 

He isn't sure if it's even a dream, because nothing ever happens. 

It's just the fortress, in the middle of snowy mountains, never-ending snow on the ground and in the sky. Glaciers. No avalanches, no animals, no people. Just a landscape. Every night. No other dreams. 

Not ever.

 

Sometimes he turns on the laptop, and one time his messenger blinks and Ray is on. 

He doesn't even know how he got his address, but if Ray wants to find out something, he does.

So he says hi.

He has to concentrate on breathing. They haven't talked since Iraq.

The screen asks him how he's doing.

He types two letters, OK, and hits enter.

Somehow, the message doesn't pop up, must have gotten lost.

His fingers hover over the keyboard.

He types something else.

I dream about a fortress, he writes. A fortress in my mind. 

He stares at the letters, the words.

He adds, I don't know what to make of that. It's all snow and ice.

He blinks.

The words don't make sense. They don't even look like words.

Slowly, carefully he taps the delete key. And again. He erases every single letter, and he cannot stop pressing the key.

When he manages to look up again, the screen is blank and Ray is gone.

 

The next night, something has changed. 

He's not sure about it until he wakes up, and he pants so hard it hurts in his ears. His hands burn from clenching them into tight fists.

His muscles are tense right up into his shoulder and down his back. Sharp pain spikes as he tries to move. He closes his eyes and tries to remember.

Something is wrong.

 

Movement. That's what he saw. Movement disturbing the quietness of the scenery. 

Animal tracks, bird songs and little spots in the distance.

It could be people.

He's not sure.

He just thinks, whatever this is, it feels like it's gotten worse. Not as in slightly less good, but as in a really freaky nightmare.

He just wishes he knew why.

 

He spends hours relaxing his muscles, and then hours running and making them all sore again. 

When he looks into the mirror after he's showered, absentmindedly wondering why he even bothers with a towel around his hips when there is no one who could see, he thinks he might have lost a bit of weight, a bit of muscle definition, and the skin of his chest feels dry under his finger tips.

He should take care of himself, he knows that.

He spends the rest of the day doing sit-ups.

 

There are people in the snow. They are hard to spot, but occasionally they unmistakably move. 

They seem to do nothing besides hiding and watching.

First recon.

When they crouch forward, it is almost soundless. Some of them are scattered among the whole terrain, but they are concentrated around the fortress.

Protecting.

 

Why does a fortress need protection? 

There is nothing else out there except for the stray doe, nibbling at a young tree. Are they trying to keep something out, or keep something in?

He tries to remember his training, analyze the patterns of behavior, but it doesn't make sense. It shouldn't be surprising.

It's a dream, after all.

 

\--- 

 

The nights are busy now. 

People are scrambling everywhere. They wear uniforms, standard military combat uniforms, except that they are white.

He's never seen white camouflage before, but he supposes it makes sense in the environment. They wear helmets, boots, weapons and a lot of equipment he cannot recognize.

He tries to identify something unusual, anything descriptive that might be evidence of their department unit, but they are too far away.

 

He wakes up and his first thought is, they are armed. 

He has armed, highly-trained, unidentified military forces inside his dream, inside his head.

He didn't put them there.

All he did was think of snow flakes to calm down and go to sleep. Now he has a fortress and a freaking army. Special ops, by the looks of it. At least they're not amateurs.

Maybe he should feel honored. Or freak out. Or run another dozen miles.

 

This evening, he gets the call. 

His breathing his even. His hand holding the receiver is steady. His voice is calm. There's no reason to be surprised. He hasn't forgotten about tomorrow. They just want to remind him, and explain a few details. About the day he comes back, or, as they phrase it, ends his holidays. He can't tell him it hasn't really been holidays, just days and days and days.

He doesn't even know the guy who's calling him.

 

He stands on one of the mountain and looks down at the people lying in the snow. 

He's close enough to see they are using customized modifications on their M16s.

He squints his eyes against the blinding reflections of the snow, but he cannot make out any faces. They are hidden almost completely behind their helmets and scarves and goggles. He thinks about moving forward to get a better look, but he thinks it might be unwise to give up his position at the tree line.

He doesn't know how the people would react if they saw him.

 

He's cold. His feet are freezing and the coldness creeps upwards, chilling his bones and guts. His fingers are numb. He looks down. 

He's naked. No wonder he feels like ice.

He rubs his fingers against his stomach, but it's not helping. His mind races through solutions to his situation. He could stumble down the mountain slope, surrender to the squad and hope that their job includes saving him from freezing. But that's just the last resort.

He looks around, evaluating resources that might be useful, and while he looks and turns, he catches something from the corner of his eye. He turns and looks. It's his back.

His tattoo is gone.

 

He wakes up, fingers clenching at his back, stroking over reassuring smooth ink. He's cold. 

He tries to assess the situation, check for tissue damage. He examines his fingers for frostbites, not even daring to look at his feet. His fingers don't look too bad, maybe first-degree frostbites, but he cannot really see because they're shaking so much.

In fact, his whole body is shivering so hard that it actually hurts, and he really needs to warm himself up to avoid further damage.

 

There's no one who could help him, so he drags himself out of the bed, his knees shaky, leaning against the wall a few times on his way to the shower. 

He doesn't bother stripping off his clothes, he just stumbles into the shower and falls against the wall, sliding down when his legs won't hold him up any longer.

 

Hot water hits his head, streaming down around his shoulders, over his arms, his back. He dams some of the water to wash his feet in. 

The water hurts, but he cannot determine whether it's the actual heat, the warming up of his body or the force of the water jet. He cannot bring himself to turn the water down or cool it off.

He just sits there, eyes closed against the drops and spits out water that trickles into his mouth, opened because he's still panting.

 

He needs to make sure he's thoroughly heated up. He needs to make sure he's warm again. 

He shivers just thinking about the snow under his bare feet and the wind blowing against unprotected skin. He sits there for hours, watching his skin turn red. The early sunrise creeps in through the bathroom window.

He's never showered so long the hot water runs out, but he suddenly realizes the water is completely cold. He flinches and reaches for the faucet. The whole room is foggy, the mirror steamed up when he stumbles out.

He doesn't feel better. In fact, he feels even worse.

 

He gets back into bed, pulling up sheets and pillows around him. 

He closes his eyes and tries to relax, but he cannot stop shaking and the whole room seems to vibrate. The walls close in on him. It's getting impossible to breath. He focuses on a spot on the wall, but his vision blurs at the edges and then blackens out.

He remembers his training. He raises his hands and touches his chest to anchor himself in reality. Everything is wet. It takes a few seconds, but then he realizes he's sweating like crazy.

He has to call in sick for his first day. 

 

He feels a lot better the next day. He doesn't even know what had gotten into him before. 

He's slept through most of the day and the whole night, dreaming of the fortress, the soldiers, the mountains.

Everything stays in position. Everyone is watching. He feels safe, protected. He wakes up the next morning, feeling fit and ready.

He calls back in, and everything is fine. Only new faces of young cadets, in deep respect of his reputation.

This job is easy, really.

 

\--- 

 

This is his life now. 

During the day, he shoos around a bunch of newbies, tries to keep himself fit and respected and out of harm's way. 

At night, he dreams about faceless guards and an impregnable stronghold in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes, he thinks he hears people whispering behind his back, but even his wild imagination cannot come up with anything bad they could say.

He does his job, and he's the best.

 

One day, he finds himself in the hallway leading to the armory. He's not quite sure how he's got here, but Nate is here too. 

In retrospect, he can remember someone informing him that Nate has called ahead, announcing a visit to his former team-leader. They sit down on a bench.

Nate looks good, smiles a lot and occasionally touches his shoulder. He feels sick. He nods and smiles back when Nate asks him how he's holding up.

There is a hint of shadow in Nate's face, and he feels a bit sorry for him. Nate was always one of the few who let things get to him. He's not keeping frosty enough. But he's sure he'll be fine, and it isn't his job to tell him how to handle things.

They share a short, manly hug.

 

The people in his dreams are no longer hiding in the snow. 

They are patrolling. There's no other way to put it.

The crackling of their running steps is deafening after all this silence. They keep their weapons ready to shoot and roam the territory in teams of varying size. This is obviously an operation, an organized, planned, systematic operation. And apparently, the appropriate gear has finally arrived.

There are different kind of launchers, grenades, rockets, bombs, half-buried in the snow.

 

Soldiers with ski equipment race each other, carving turns down the mountains, getting overtaken easily by snowmobiles painted completely white. 

In the distance, what looks like white camouflaged humvees with snow treads are mapping the area. The sound of roaring motors echoes off stone cliffs. Training shots are fired off.

He just wished he knew what they want. 

 

He notices people are careful around him. 

It has taken him a while because people used to be careful around him a lot. But now it's more. It's as if they're afraid he might flip. Frankly, it makes him angry.

He's fine. He does his job. He loves his job.

That's all they should be concerned with. He's earned respect and admiration from everyone working together with him, and he thinks that should really be enough.

 

The first time he actually touches a rifle again, all eyes are on him, waiting for him to freak out. 

He does freak out a little bit, breath speeding up, sweat breaking out everywhere, his hands shaking. Someone approaches and extends his hand to take it away from him, but he backs off, clutching it, his eyes never leaving the barrel. One of the guys who is less stupid just touches his shoulder, and that helps. He can think again.

He hands the weapon over, completely calm again. Everyone thinks he's PTSDing, and he cannot tell them the truth.

The truth is, he was surprised that the rifle wasn't white.

 

The call, the real deal, comes a few weeks later. 

It's the order to get out of his bed and drive like crazy back into the facilities for an emergency briefing. He's known something is coming, fast and deadly, but when maps are tossed in front of him, he's never even heard of the country.

It's the Middle East, again.

They don't have to leave immediately. There is still debating, negotiations, sizing up. It could take weeks, or it could never happen at all.

On his way home, he starts to pack in his mind anyway.

 

He knows it's out of control when the first thing that comes to mind is whether he should bring some skis. 

That's crazy, and he knows it. And his reaction to the rifle, that's just dangerous. He cannot trust himself anymore, and he's in no state to take responsibility for the life of others.

So he decides to go in. He has to. He doesn't care if he's naked and cold and tattoo-less.

It's the right thing to do.

 

So here he is, in the middle of his dream, stumbling down the mountain towards the fortress. 

He has to know what's inside. It's the only way to end it. He comes into sight and the soldiers open fire like he knew they would, and he ducks and hides and runs for his life.

Under other circumstances, there would be no way to survive this, but it is his dream after all, and he hopes for the best.

 

He doesn't look back, but he can hear a giant avalanche grumbling at the top of the mountain behind him, threatening to bury the whole valley which he's trying to cross at the moment, but he thinks he can make it if he's fast enough. 

He's studied the movement and organization for weeks. They have a few weak spots, and he plans on taking advantage. He sneaks up behind a soldier looking the wrong way, and manages to knock him out before he even knows that he's there.

He takes hold of his weapon, and on a second thought, he also strips him of his clothes and puts them on.

 

For the first time, he feels confident. 

He's dressed, armed and determined. He plans on shooting his way through, but it gets easier and easier the further he comes.

Weirdly enough, it also seems to get warmer and warmer.

He enters the fortress, knowing every turn and shortcut, crouching through air vents, cutting corners, shooting a few soldiers brave enough to get in his way.

 

Although he's busy running and pointing his gun and hiding, he notices water dripping from the ceiling and the walls, and he quickly realizes the whole thing is going to collapse. 

There is nothing else holding the massive stone walls except for snow and ice, and the temperature keeps rising. He shoots a quick glance out of the window, but his mind cannot make sense of what he sees outside.

He focuses back on running forward, deeper and deeper into the castle towards the room which he has been avoiding thinking about.

 

He starts to sweat inside the uniform. 

Each room seems to be a dozen degrees warmer than the last. There are no guards inside anymore. The sounds of missiles being fired of is muffled and distanced. He's made it.

All he has to do is open the last door and look behind it. The door that is emitting heat. He lets his fingers trace over it.

Behind him, walls start to crumble.

There is no going back now. He just has to push the door open.

 

He pushes and pushes. 

The door jams from lack of use. He groans, his feet slipping away on the melting ice, and he pushes and pushes until the muscles in his biceps start to tremble and then some more, until he feels the material giving way.

 

Behind the door, it's desert. 

It's shooting and waiting and hoping and dying.

It's fear and loss.

It's helplessness and struggling for air.

It's watching people dart between bullets, getting hit in the arm, leg, chest.

It's heat.

  
He's facing everything he's buried under snow and ice. 

It's time to let go. 


End file.
